


Two words, with a meaning not wholly familiar

by phenoob



Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier & Related Fandoms
Genre: But serious until the very end, Crack, F/F, Gen, Implied/background relationship only, Mild Anachronism, When Robert knows things press x to doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenoob/pseuds/phenoob
Summary: Robert knows why Mrs. Danvers searches her new mistress's discarded papers. Or does he?
Relationships: Mrs. Danvers/Narrator
Kudos: 4





	Two words, with a meaning not wholly familiar

**Author's Note:**

> First Rebecca crack on AO3?
> 
> Based on the bit where Danvers returns the narrator's sketch from her waste bin. I thought cool, you could send clandestine messages that way, and someone please rescue this premise from me because it deserves better than crack. This turned out almost serious...but not quite. I apologize.
> 
> Feb 2021: Minor edits for legibility.

Mrs. Danvers doesn't check the waste paper from every room, only a privileged few: the morning room, the library, the de Winters' bedroom. She can tell those bins apart from the rest, when everything's gathered up for disposal, by their design, slightly more ornate than the others--as well they should be, she'd said, for rooms frequented by the lord and lady of Manderley. And who knows. Maybe that really was the reason, back during the renovations, when trifles such as shoe horns, lightswitch covers and waste paper bins were cast off, upgraded for modernity and grace. For all Mrs. Danvers knew then, the second Mrs. de Winter would be the sort to appreciate it. Now, it's clear the second Mrs. de Winter is the sort who doesn't mind either way--bless her--and now, Robert knows why the housekeeper rifles through her waste paper.

(It's because she loathes her, of course.)

Oh, yes, Robert knows just how Mrs. Danvers feels about her new mistress. He knew the moment they shook hands, that first spring afternoon with the staff lined up as if to spectate. It wasn't the sight of Mrs. Danvers--her back was to Robert--but the sight of the poor woman quivering like a schoolgirl under what could only have been _that glare_ \--the same glare for which, a month later, Robert found himself sulking, crying really, over a bauble from the morning room. Mrs. Danvers apologized that same morning; Robert doubts he'll ever forget her smile as she did, nor the way she said, relishing every word, "It was Mrs. de Winter who broke it, and hid the fragments in the back of a drawer." It's none of Robert's business, but she loathes her.

It's a busy afternoon, the halls all a-rumble with pattering workman's boots, barrow wheels on tile, carpets thumping, all for the upcoming fancy-dress ball. The preparations course through Manderley, a great tidal wave that sweeps every chair, every table, every sort of appliance from one room, to another, and another. It's to be expected that some routines can't be carried out in their designated areas, and must be taken elsewhere. Even waste paper disposal. How strange to see the maids set the bins down in the servants' common room, of all places, where anyone might catch Mrs. Danvers at her mysterious search. Anyone, including Robert.

Mrs. Danvers hasn't seen him out there in the hall. The door's faulty, and likes to open a crack on its own. Whatever she hopes to find in that ornate bin--how incriminating could Mrs. de Winter's waste paper be, really?--Robert knows she's up to something, at least, so he'll forgive himself for skulking.

Mrs. Danvers smooths out a crumpled piece of paper and brings it close to her face to read. She stills a moment. An automaton wanting winding-up. Then she stuffs the paper somewhere in the collar of her dress, her arms fall to her sides, and Robert fancies her shoulders softening into something like a sigh. Of what? Relief, or exasperation, or--

The ring of a bell. Probably from the library. Probably for Mrs. Danvers.

Robert hops back. It was for Mrs. Danvers; Robert hears her cross the room with those strides unique to her. Long, purposeful strides, a soldier's strides, but never a run, and certainly never the sort of scamper women sometimes make of running. It's not her way; the high-handed and punctual are seldom pressed to run. But to look at her the past year, what's become of her since ... _then,_ one might figure it for some handicap that keeps Mrs. Danvers at walking pace instead. Rheumatism, or something. Robert doesn't think so, or maybe it's just that the thought perturbs him. A crow mustn't know much of the scarecrow's brittleness.

Robert falls into a steady walk, hopefully in time for Mrs. Danvers to notice him "just passing by." There's no menace in her curt nod when she sees him, not really, but Robert feels his heart in his throat anyway. He watches Mrs. Danvers trail off. Yes, she'd be a sorry sight if Robert's heart didn't palpitate so. But somehow, he fancies, she's filled out, if only a tiny bit, since around the time the second Mrs. de Winter arrived, a drop of colour returned to her face, and the yellow patches beneath her ears have gone.

The evening's work scrubs all thoughts of waste paper, and Mrs. Danvers' enigmatic constitution, from Robert's mind, until he's clearing the remains of the de Winters' dinner. He lifts his tray and makes to carry it off, when--

"Oh, Robert?"

"Yes, Mrs. de Winter?"

"Mrs. Danvers is quite busy, isn't she?"--Robert hasn't the foggiest how to answer that; thankfully it's passed over--"Do you know if she still checks the waste paper each day?"

Robert must look stricken because Mrs. de Winter adds, "Oh, there's nothing the matter, Robert. Nothing at all; it's just, I've mislaid a few ... hairpins, and wanted to be sure I hadn't thrown them away by accident."

"Hairpins?" Mr. de Winter says. "Thrown away by accident? What the devil are you talking about?" Mrs. de Winter blushes scarlet. Caught in a lie; that much is obvious, though Robert can't fathom the reason for it. Mr. de Winter regards his wife, taking new note of the locks of hair curtaining her face, markedly unpinned. Eventually he says, "I see. It's for your costume, isn't it? Don't look like that, dear; I'd be the last to pry."

Mrs. de Winter relaxes in her seat, evidently relieved, in that queer, remote way of hers. She looks expectantly at Robert. "So, um. Does she still check the papers?"

Robert's palms grow slick beneath the tray. "Mrs. Danvers did check them this afternoon," he says, then falters--he's a footman; he shouldn't know that; suppose this all comes back to Mrs. Danvers--"I mean--I'm afraid I don't know very much about these things, Madam, so forgive me, but I'm not--sure--whether she salvaged anything."

"It's no trouble, Robert; I can always ask her directly. Thank you."

Arms turning to rubber, his world spinning, Robert takes the tray off towards the kitchen. He catches wisps of conversation--"a farthing a piece; needn't bother her"--"good to see you two getting along, though."

Getting along, indeed. _I can always ask her directly!_ Perhaps there's nothing to it after all. Perhaps Mrs. Danvers really is concerned about thrown-away valuables, or hairpins, or something. It suits Robert well enough to accept it for that, and forget the whole affair, until--

A bump, a stumble; the tray crashes to the floor. Robert's always careful, always, rounding that blind corner, but this time, oh, his head's been far too much in the clouds today. Whoever bumped into him didn't fall, at least, buffered by the tray. The only casualty would likely be the tupperware.

"Good evening, Robert," comes the last voice Robert would've wanted to hear. Sarcasm doesn't become such a lifeless voice. Robert might cry. Unable to look up, he stammers apologies to the black shoes and skirt hem, and by the time he falls silent, tears already prick behind his eyes, on the verge of spilling--

"Nothing seems to be broken."--Mrs. Danvers stoops to the tray, into Robert's field of view--"You should inspect these in kitchen, though, and tell me if you find any damage."

Robert looks at the tupperware--astonishingly, all does appear intact--and then at Mrs. Danvers. She regards him impassively. Almost. Were it not for a barely-perceptible twitch of the lip, she may as well have been carved from stone.

"Yes, Mrs. Danvers," Robert pants. His toe smarts; a heel must've trodden on it.

"The passage is much too narrow here, for a corner, don't you think?" Mrs. Danvers says, and goes on quite freely, normally, "I have--seen--several collisions at this very spot. I advised Mr. de Winter to have it altered during the renovations, but he refused. Just between us, I think he may not fully appreciate the inconvenience of it, but why should he? It's outside his purview, here in the back of the house. One must simply be cautious; I'm afraid there's nothing else for it. You may go, Robert."

"Yes, Mrs. Danvers."

As in a dream, Robert watches Mrs. Danvers disappear down the hall and up the staircase, a strange little bounce to her step. What a strange little speech, too. Almost friendly, almost ... appeasing. Almost as if Robert knows too much, and Mrs. Danvers, perhaps, planned the entire accident herself--oh, how diabolical--for a chance to win Robert's silence with a display of sympathy. She'd be mistaken, of course. Robert hardly even knows what to think, let alone believe.

Robert crouches to gather the tupperware. Something catches his eye from a little farther down the hall. He moves to take a closer look. A paper. _That_ paper. No doubt dislodged from Mrs. Danvers' dress by the collision, scattered where she couldn't have seen it. Robert picks it up, and then the curiosity is simply too much.

He opens the paper. A fine bit of stationery; a gold "de W" adorns the corner. There's writing, in a prim, blocky hand. Robert isn't sure what to make of it. Two words, with a meaning not wholly familiar:

_"Send nudes."_


End file.
